PART TWO
SIX
DECEMBER 28
8 AM
Only five officers were at their desks when Vanier arrived: Laurent, St. Jacques, Roberge, Fletcher, and Janvier. Vanier stood in the middle of the room and had their attention.
“Listen up. It’s officially a murder investigation. All the victims were killed with potassium cyanide.” He spelled it out and they scribbled it down. “It’s a common industrial chemical and a lethal poison. Santa mixed it in rum and eggnog and sent them on their way.”
Laurent raised his big head. “Isn’t that what Goering used?”
“Goering?”
“In the Nuremberg trial. I saw the film. Somebody smuggled him a cyanide pill, and he killed himself.”
“Christ, you learn something every day. So we can take Goering off the list of suspects. We’re making progress. And I don’t think that we’re looking for pills. Our guy is serving it up in liquid, so we can start by assuming that he has a stock of powder. So here’s what I want. Start with the manufacturers and importers, anyone who makes the stuff, and anyone who has imported it in the last three years. Have them check to see if any is missing; any recent thefts; disgruntled employees; employees who’ve quit recently — you know the sort of thing, anything unusual. You find anything, let me know immediately. Once you’ve got the sources of this stuff, start working on the customers, all the way down to the last buyer. We have to check them all, and as quickly as possible. Any questions?”
“Any suggestions on customs, for the importers?” This from Fletcher.
“Good question.” In the last few years they’d had problems getting information quickly from customs. They weren’t keen on sharing unless there was some joint task force, and even then, they liked to hold back. Something about the privacy rights of importers. Vanier flipped open his phone and scrolled through his address book. “Call Danielle Sabbatini, she’s an investigator in Laval, and she owes me. 450-363-2082. If she gives you grief, tell her you’re cashing in a marker from me. If she still won’t help, call me.”
“Sir, what about the government agencies?” This from St. Jacques. “Maybe you need a licence to keep potassium cyanide. So maybe there’s a list somewhere.”
“I was told that it’s unlikely, but it’s worth a try. See what you can get. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir,” said Fletcher. “We checked the parking tickets. They weren’t giving tickets Christmas Eve, they were towing cars away to make way for the snow clearing. Anything that was parked illegally, or that was in the way of the clearing, was towed. Thirty-six cars in all, and I’m working through the list. Nothing so far, but it could take another two days, sir.”
“Well, keep it up.”
“Are we getting extra help, sir?” asked St. Jacques.
“The Chief is considering my request for additional resources and will get back to me when he has time to think. So don’t hold your breath. In the meantime you’ll be glad to hear that you can all work as much overtime as you like. The Chief has generously agreed to open the purse on that one.”
That news was greeted with groans.
“Right. If you’ve all got work to do, let’s get to it. Laurent, you come with me, we’re going to church again, separate cars.”
As they were pulling on their overcoats, St. Jacques passed an envelope to Vanier. Laurent was watching but said nothing.
“My lottery winnings,” said Vanier.
“So where’s mine? I’m in the pool too,” said Laurent.
“You didn’t win.”
“Fuck.”
9.30 AM
Laurent ignored the clutch of men waiting with outstretched paper cups, and pulled open the steel and glass doors to the Cathedral. Vanier followed, watching Laurent dip his fingers in the holy water font, then bless himself before opening the second set of doors. Old habits, thought Vanier.
It was dark and cold inside, a sacrifice to the cost of lighting and heating the empty granite space. An attendant told them that Father Henri was conducting a service in St. Jude’s Crypt, and pointed the way. They approached to see the priest on his knees facing the altar and leading about twenty people in the Rosary. Vanier checked the beads being handled by the devout, and saw that they were almost halfway through the last decade. He knelt. Laurent blessed himself again and knelt beside him.
“Hail Mary, full of Grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus,” Drouin intoned.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen,” the devout replied.
Vanier joined in the response loudly enough to be heard, and Drouin, his back to the faithful, raised his head slightly as if trying to pick out the new voice.
When the Rosary ended, Drouin left a little time for silent prayer, then stood and turned to survey the group. His eyes fixed immediately on Vanier, who returned the look with the face of a cherub.
Drouin addressed the devout with difficulty. “That brings us to the end of our session. Let us give our problems and concerns to the Lord in prayer, and to the Blessed Virgin, and to our beloved St. Jude. Again, I invite any of you who need the Lord’s intercession to write your needs on one of the cards provided and drop it in the box.”
The crowd began to shuffle out, some stopping to whisper to Drouin, a few stopping to drop prayer cards into the box. While waiting for the shepherd to finish ministering to his flock, Vanier moved over to the table and picked up a blank card. Laurent followed, and Drouin eyed the two men with concern. The cards were only scraps of recycled paper. Vanier took out a pen and was still writing when Drouin approached.
“It’s curious, Inspector, but you didn’t strike me as a religious man. Do you have a need that you wish us to pray for?”
“Religious, me? Not really. But it’s like the lottery, isn’t it? If you don’t play you don’t win.”
“Well, I never play the lottery, Inspector.”
“I suppose not. It wouldn’t do for a priest to collect twenty million from the 6-49 jackpot. People would think he had some divine help. But maybe prayers are the Church’s lottery. What do you think, Father Drouin?”
“Prayers are a much better investment than the lottery, Inspector. Prayers are answered every day.”
“So there’s hope for me?”
“And what is your prayer, Inspector?”
Vanier held up the card for Drouin to read: Help me catch the bastard who killed the innocents. “Oh, excuse me, Father,” he said, taking the pen to cross out bastard and scribble something else. “This should do it,” he said, handing the card back to Drouin.
Help me find the people who killed the innocents.
“I can’t help noticing you changed a singular for a plural.”
“Yes. Strange that, isn’t it? And I think we’re dealing with one killer. But in my job we’re always fighting several people, people who know something but don’t come forward. People protecting the killer or people who just can’t be bothered.”
“You really believe those poor people were killed?”
“They were killed, Father. Murdered. What do you think of that?”
“It’s beyond belief. Who would do such a thing? Who could possibly have a reason to kill them?
“That’s my job. Nobody kills without a reason. When I find out why, I’ll have the killer.”
“I can’t think of anyone who would have a reason to kill these people.”
“Well somebody did. Just because you can’t think of a reason doesn’t mean that the killer didn’t have one, does it? So, any ideas? Anyone come to mind?”
“It would have to be a maniac. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Do you know any maniacs?”
“I know a lot of people. But nobody who is capable of killing.”
“Yesterday you said these people didn’t have friends. Did they have enemies?”